


Nuclear Fallout of My Winter Heart

by frabjousday (frabjous)



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Genre: College, F/F, Gen, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frabjous/pseuds/frabjousday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raft Roundtable will be discontinuing our advice column due to ongoing legal concerns about the liabilities thereof, and we are now seeking creative writing submissions to fill the back page.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nuclear Fallout of My Winter Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookinguptales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookinguptales/gifts).



> Have a most excellent holidays cookinguptales!
> 
> I didn't have time for a beta so all errors (about Boston or otherwise) are my own.

_Dear Raft Roundtable Readers,_

_Due to the unfortunate incident involving columnist Jo Wetherby (henceforth known as ‘the incident’), which we are legally forbidden to publish further details about, our popular column, ‘Ask Jo’ will no longer be published. Our ongoing legal concerns about the liabilities of an advice column means that we will be discontinuing that format, and Roundtable is now seeking creative writing submissions to fill the back page._

_Students with access to the previous issue of Roundtable are warned to DISREGARD ALL ADVICE written on the ‘Ask Jo’ page, but in particular the response to the pseudonym, ‘Backdoor Man’. This warning serves as a legal disclaimer and all readers will be bound by this disclaimer, whether they have read it or not, and agree to discharge Roundtable of all future legal liabilities*._

_Finally, to the student who keeps leaving copies of The Bromwell Crest and The Freedom Republican in our mailbox - you are not funny._

_The Roundtable Editors_

_*For a full copy of the disclaimer, please turn to pages 69-79._

 

+

 

“I’m almost looking forward to Lawndale,” Daria says, muffled under the layers of woollen, waterproof, thermo-fibre, down-filled micro-weave. It’s December and the snow is already coming in thick and her face feels like ice most of the time. Her roommate had laughed at her and called her sweet summer child.

Jane, on the other hand, was annoyingly unaffected by the weather, claiming that she’d had plenty of practise standing in front of the fridge for long periods of time in nothing but a t-shirt. She wore a knitted red pom pom hat and scarf which made her look suspiciously full of festive cheer.

“Say it ain’t so,” says Jane. “What about Ms Bouncy-Hair?”

Daria shrugs. “Our time apart has only made us grow closer. At this point I’d even put up with Quinn as long as I didn’t have to be the Michelin man every time I left the house.”

Jane opens the door to the student services building, and it’s still bone-chill cold inside, but at least there’s no wind. They check a laminated map to find the office for Raft Roundtable.

“This is all your fault, you know,” Daria tells her, tugging down her scarf to speak.

“Is that one hundred percent liability? Because I hope you remember this conversation when you sell out for the book deal and a seven season series on HBO,” Jane responds. “And by that I mean: please feel free to remember my contribution with money, since I’m probably going to spend the rest of my life paying off my student debt as a waitress.”

“Why not think of it as life as performance art?” says Daria and Jane makes a face.

In the post-midterm triumph and sleep deprived blur, Jane had convinced Daria to submit a Melody Powers story to Roundtable. The argument had been centred around the possibility of staging a university coup against a perceived socialist threat, and possibly some sort of post-apocalyptic nuclear scenario involving lasers from the science school. Or, failing that, forcing the Socialist Alliance Action Group to stop accosting people with flyers and paper cuts outside their pizza place.

It was probably the worst thing that Daria had ever written. Hell, she’d even ended it on the words, “Or was it?” and TO BE CONTINUED in giant, obnoxious capslock at the end. And now, apparently they wanted to publish it. Figures. Probably no one else was stupid enough to enter.

“In truth I can only thank Mr. O’Neill for the inspiration behind my hard-hitting and highly relevant political messages,” Daria says, stopping outside a door with a peeling sign. Someone had carefully scratched away parts of the letters so it looked like it said ‘R un table’.

They get hit with a cloud of warm air when Daria opens the door, probably because every surface of the office seems to be covered in radiators giving the room an orange glow. Above the radiator buzz, there’s also a clacking photocopier and a woman yelling down the phone. Daria takes off her scarf and outer jacket. It’s practically tropical inside, even for her.

“Hmm,” says Jane.

“Daria?”

It’s hard to figure out where the voice comes from at first, but that’s because it comes from what Daria initially thought was a pile of clothes. The man is wearing so much knitwear - including a balaclava - that they can only really see his eyes and lips. She’s not sure whether he’s naturally Santa-shaped or whether it’s the layers he’s wearing.

“Uh, yeah. I got an email to meet someone here about my short story?”

The man waddles over, manoeuvring around the radiators and desks stuffed into the small office. He shakes Daria’s hand wearing large Christmas tree patterned mittens. “You must be Daria. I’m Buster, one of the editors of Roundtable.”

Jane shakes his hand as well and introduced herself as Daria’s agent.

“Agent? What kind of agent?”

“Friend,” Daria corrects.

“Bodyguard,” Jane settles.

“I DON’T CARE IF YOUR WHOLE FAMILY DIED,” screams the woman over the phone, and everyone flinches, “BECAUSE I WILL PERSONALLY RUIN YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE COMPANY IF THIS PRINT EDITION DOES NOT HAPPEN BEFORE CHRISTMAS.”

It’s hard to tell, but Buster might look scared under his balaclava. Or maybe he drank some bad eggnog. “Lisa has been on the phone to the printers since yesterday. They don’t want to work extra days to print our Christmas edition, and, well, it’s going to look pretty stupid if we publish it after Christmas.”

“Why not just get in an early Christmas edition for next year?” says Jane.

“I KNOW WHERE YOU WORK, AND I CAN MAKE YOUR LIFE VERY DIFFICULT FOR YOU. YES I CAN, SIR. I CAN HAVE THE SOCIALIST ALLIANCE ACTION GROUP, THE WOMYN’S COLLECTIVE AND STUDENTS4STUDENTS ALL PROTESTING AT YOUR OFFICE IN HALF AN HOUR. ALL I NEED TO DO IS MAKE ONE CALL.”

“Daria,” Buster continues nervously, “we read your story, and we love it. It’s brilliant. What a pastiche! But before we publish it, we want to make sure you’re with us for the long haul.”

“Uhh…”

“We can’t just publish the first part and leave our readers hanging. So, exactly how much more of Melody Powers: Nuclear Fallout of My Winter Heart is there?”

“I haven’t really written any more.”

“Perfect! What we’d like to offer you is an ongoing, serialised section in Roundtable for you writing. Just like Dickens and that guy who wrote Sherlock Holmes!”

“Are you going to pay me by the word too? Because if so, I think I’ve been too generous with the plot.”

Buster coughs. “Well, you know the Roundtable is a non-profit student-run publication. We can give you a lot of exposure and - don’t tell Lisa I told you about this - but we get 2 for 1 cheese fries from the pizza place every day of the week. Not just Mondays.”

“YOU HAVE ONE HOUR SIR. YOU HEAR ME? ONE. HOUR.” Lisa slams down the phone, and beams at them. “Daria, right? Has Buster spoken to you about our offer yet? What a great opportunity to get published early in your degree!” She looks expectantly at Buster.

“And to think that I aimed so high that I hit the moon, that the stars of academic, peer-reviewed journals seem dim in comparison.”

“Daria’s just thinking it over right now,” says Buster. “Aren’t you, Daria?”

“Uh.”

“I’m going to be straight with you Daria,” says Lisa. “Your short story is just the kind of thing that we need to increase our readership. The Socialist Action Alliance love being outraged, and The Americans for Liberty and Freedom will finally stop writing us about liberal left-wing bias. And if that translates into circulation numbers, we might even be able to afford colour pages.”

“And McCarthyism is so in right now,” Buster agrees. “Everyone digs how post-modern and ironic it is.”

“Buster has told you about our cheese fries deal right?”

“I don’t think cheese fries is gonna cut it with this gal,” says Jane. “Daria knows she’s got a winner. What else you got?”

Buster and Lisa exchange a look.

“Alright,” says Lisa, “here’s my offer: 2 for 1 cheese fries, free soda and pizza upgrade. Any day of the week, except Friday and Saturday evenings.”

“And maaaaaybe Students4Students would be interested to hear about the exploitative labor practices happening right under their very noses. Right Daria?”

Lisa narrows her eyes. “Fine. Twenty dollars in credit for Target per story.”

“Fifty.”

“Deal.”

Daria sighs. “Just don’t put my real name on it, okay?”

 

+

 

_WANTED: ROOMMATE_

_CHEAP RENT, LARGE ROOM_  
 _PAY ON TIME, BILLS SPLIT_  
 _MUST LIKE WIM DEVOLYE AND CATS_  
 _NO FASCISTS_

 

+

 

They get pizza, soda, and a side of cheese fries to celebrate, and then they head to Jane’s place to watch the Sick Sad World holiday special.

Daria lives in a tiny dorm with a roommate named Chloe who mostly spends her time going to see heavy metal bands, wearing too much eyeliner and sleeping till late afternoon. It’s a little bit like rooming with Trent-as-a-girl, if Trent ended up majoring in Chemistry, so not actually like Trent at all. It’s an easy since Chloe is usually either asleep or absent, and the handful of conversations they’d had weren’t painful. Either that or she’s getting soft.

Jane, on the other hand, had dragged Daria to every noticeboard in Boston, tearing off handfuls of paper strips from pinboard ads and making her answer questions like, “Out of these, who do you think is least likely to be a murdering psychopath?” and “Should I call the creepy doll lady first or the death cultist?”

Jane’s apartment is falling apart. There are holes in the walls, rust stains in the bathroom and kitchen, and the doors are literally falling off their hinges. The walls are yellow with age, with peeling paint and wallpaper and old posters of the BeeGees that Freddie claimed were already there when she moved in. All the flat surfaces, including the floor, were covered in paint or trash - Freddie called them ‘found objects’ - and every step made Daria feel like she should be getting a tetanus booster.

But at least it had a TV, and Jane had her own room. And apparently the rent is cheap because it’s owned by Freddie’s great aunt or something.

Freddie has pink hair. She’s two years ahead of Jane at BFAC, and keeps trying to convince Jane to major in sculpture instead of painting. It’s first time Daria has ever heard Jane get into a heated argument about art.

Today, there’s something that looks like an igloo made out of upholstery fabric blocking the view between the couch and the TV. There’s a long opening which leads into a huge padded, oval cave that looks like it might be 8 feet high. It’s mostly stitched together with patches red, pink and orange.

“Oops. Forgot we had this here.”

“And this is…?”

“It’s Freddie’s installation for her exhibition,” Jane explains. She takes off her shoes and gets down on her knees. “C’mon, you can go in,” she says, and crawls through the opening.

Daria bends over but it’s completely dark inside, and she can’t see a thing.

“C’mon, Daria, it’s cool,” says Jane’s muffled voice from inside the igloo.

Daria unlaces her shoes, and crawls in after her.

The fabric is soft and the passageway is padded and easy on her knees. There’s a bit of a squeeze before she pops into the main alcove.

She struggles into a sitting position, and knocks into Jane in the process.

“Ow.”

“Sorry. Jane?”

“I’m here,” she says, and Daria realises how close they are in this… thing. She can feel Jane’s arms and shoulders resting gently against hers. Daria repositions herself to get comfortable. The walls and floor are kind of lumpy and squishy at the same time. Her eyes adjust a little, but she can only make out the vague silhouette of where Jane might be.

“Sorry we didn’t get to watch the holiday special,” Jane says. “I totally forgot about this thing.”

Daria shrugs, and then realises Jane can’t see her. “That’s okay. I think it was mostly a clip show anyway.”

Daria hears Jane shift a little. “When are you flying back?” Jane asks.

“On the 20th. Mom said I needed to spend more time with them, and she’s paying for the flight.”

“Hmm,” says Jane. “Guess it’s an orphan’s Christmas for me.”

“I’ll be back on the 28th. We can do New Year’s together,” Daria offers, suddenly feeling guilty for leaving Jane alone in Boston. Not that she didn’t have friends, but it was their first year away from Lawndale and Jane didn’t have a car or parents who’d pay for her to fly home.

“Sounds good.”

There’s a moment of silence, and finally, Daria decides she has to ask.

“Hey, Jane. Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Are we sitting inside a giant vagina?”

Jane says, “I think Freddie wanted to call it ‘Womb No 3’,” and her voice is wry and comfortably familiar.

Daria smiles.

She hears Jane move before she feels it, and there’s a surprise-but-not when a pair of lips briefly meet hers.

It’s just a peck. It’s just a platonic friend thing… probably. Or maybe Jane missed her cheek in the dark.

“Merry Christmas, Morgendorffer,” says Jane.

There’s something warm building in the bottom of Daria’s stomach.

“Merry Christmas, Jane.”

 

+

 

_Dear Roundtable Editors,_

_Melody Powers is the first worthwhile piece of fiction I’ve ever read in your otherwise leftie, pinko-commie hippy propaganda publication. I applaud the patriotic American who put pen to paper to send a message against the tide of unchecked liberalism. I sincerely hope you will be publishing more of Melody’s adventures in the future._

_As to your “holiday” edition - it is no coincidence that ‘Santa Claus’ is a myth of pagan origin, who chooses to operate outside the market economy by distributing ‘free’ gifts and also wears red. Think about THAT!_

 

+

 

THE END

~~Or was it?~~

~~TO BE CONTINUED...~~


End file.
